11
She would not feel nervous, she told herself, as she pulled her truck into an unfamiliar driveway in Portland’s Hawthorne District. Alexei had invited her to his home in order to plan out their cookbook, talk about how his recipes would integrate with her short essays on organic gardening. The publisher had been quite enthusiastic about combining the two. According to Alexei, she was so enthusiastic she had begun talking about putting together some kind of a TV pilot.
She could understand anyone wanting to put Alexei on television. She could see him as a glamorous TV chef working from a food truck.
The project was beginning to seem real, especially as it included a budget for a photographer who would take some professional shots of Alexei cooking in the food truck and even photos of her small organic farm.
In another man, the promise to cook for her might sound like a real date, but she and Alexei were two people who worked with food for their professions and were planning to write a cookbook together. Of course he was going to cook for her, as she was going to grow vegetables for him. She got out of her truck and then hefted the small crate of kale and potatoes that she had brought with her. She’d hesitated over getting a bottle of wine but she didn’t want him to think she had the wrong idea about tonight so she stuck with the vegetables.
He lived in a small bungalow that had to be nearly a century old. A small covered porch was set in front of a shiny black front door flanked by two pots. Where anyone else might have a small topiary in the pot, he had actual olive trees growing in terra-cotta pots that appeared dusty with age. She’d bet her entire crop of winter cabbage that the pots had come all the way from Greece. They were tucked up against the wall of the house to shelter them from the elements, but wondered if they’d survive a winter out here.
She rang the doorbell and waited. A moment later the door opened and, as she took step to enter, Alexei took a step toward her, nearly treading on her toe and bumping her body back. She glanced up in alarm to find a very strange expression on his face, something close to panic. “I’m really sorry,” he said in an urgent whisper. “My mother’s here.”
She tried to ignore the flash of heat on all the parts of her that he’d touched. “Your mother’s here? Does she live with you?”
“God no. My mother gets thesefeelings.” He put air quotes around the word. “Then she jumps on a plane and comes out to bother my brother and me.”
“Maybe she is psychic, I mean your brother just got engaged.”
“She is not psychic. She’s nosy. And interfering. She’s in my kitchen right now taking over. I’m really sorry. I wanted to cook for you.”
She was charmed. First, that he was so clearly flustered and unable to control his own mother. And that he wanted to warn her. She said, “I don’t mind.” And she didn’t.
“Honest, if you want to turn tail and run, I won’t blame you.”
She shook her head. “I can handle Mama.”
“You only say that because you haven’t met her yet.” He took the box from her with a muttered word of thanks and then led her inside. Where it smelled fantastic.
As she followed Alexei into his house, a small, round woman came bustling out of what was clearly the kitchen. She had a red and white striped apron wrapped around her waist. She had dark curly hair and a swarthy complexion. At first glance, it seemed that all Alexei had inherited from her was her large, expressive eyes. These took Marguerite in from top to toe with one sweeping, comprehensive glance.
“Mama, allow me to present my friend Marguerite Chance.” Marguerite noticed that he put the emphasis on the word friend. “Marguerite this is Eleni Vasilopoulos. My mother.”
Marguerite had to bend down to accept the embrace being offered her. Alexei’s mother kissed her soundly on one cheek and then the other and then drew back scrutinizing her with no embarrassment whatsoever. She turned to Alexei. “But she is beautiful. You did not tell me this woman was so beautiful.”
Before he could speak Marguerite jumped in. “No. Really, I’m not.”
The woman shook her head. “North Americans don’t understand beauty. She is beautiful in the Greek way of beauty. And, you know, the Greeks invented beauty. Also architecture, art, thought, sports and literature.”
Alexi broke into something short and sharp in Greek. His mother answered just as sharply. Even without hearing the words she was pretty sure she could figure out what they were saying to each other.
Eleni Vasilopoulos said, “You are the sister of the doctor who is marrying my other son.”
“Rose Chance. Yes, she is my sister.”
The older woman nodded and narrowed her eyes. “You like children?”
She could feel Alexei getting ready to tell his mother off again in Greek so very quickly she said, “Yes. I love children.” And simply to save herself getting the next question she said, “and I hope to have some myself one day.”
Alexei took the box of produce and shoved it at his mother. The woman gazed down at the dark green of the kale and the lumpy shaped potatoes with a little dirt still clinging to them. She touched them as though they were a box of newly hatched baby chicks. She nodded. “This is how food should be.” Then she shook her head. “I apologize for the food. He’s my son, he should know how to cook for guests, but he has only one dessert. You come to my house and see what Greek hospitality is. Baklava, galaktoboureko, koulourakia and kourabiethes.” She sighed.
“We’ll be fine, Mama.”
She glanced at Marguerite and then back at Alexei. She said something to him in Greek and turned away. As though she were repeating the same phrase but had forgotten to speak Greek she said in English, “I like this one. She could be Greek.”
Alexei said, “You know what else is Greek? Tragedies about interfering mothers!”
“I have to go now. I wanted to serve the dinner and get a nice picture of you both with the food, but your brother needs me.”
